GunMetalGrey
by Acheronia
Summary: Twincest. Who knew guns could be so sexy? Who could've known they can give life as well as death? Darkness, Rain, Blood, and the glittering of a Grey Metal Gun is all they see.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here is something short and sweet. It's a one-shot, unless by some miracle someone wants it to go somewhere else. ** **I was listening to the theme song for House, M.D. when I was writing this, in case anyone wanted to get the "true" reading experience. I hope ya'll enjoy and please, please, PLEASE review!  
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**Disclaimer: The characters, sadly, are not mine :: sniffle:: **

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**GunMetalGrey Goodness**

Connor had faith. In God, in his mission, in himself. But most of all, Connor had faith in his brother. Murphy was his rock, his shield, his sword, protection against the darkness of doubt and fear.

He sat, legs stretched out in an inelegant sprawl, a cigarette dangling from long, tapered fingers, stained with scars and nicotine. The chair was old, bare and only just in one piece but it supported him in his efforts, or lack thereof.

His darker eyes watched Murphy from under whisky-weighted lids. Connor could only see his brother's hands and the smooth expanse of his naked back. The flex of flesh and bone in them dazzled his vision, looking like the liquid ripple beneath a cat's coat. He lifted his hand to his mouth, feeling the shocking coolness of the glass against his lips, fuller and more finely-chiseled than his brother's. The cheap scotch slid over his tongue and down the back of his throat, quick and fiery. Like something else Connor swallowed with much more pleasure, a salty sweetness. The alcohol smoldered in his belly at the thought.

Murphy's hair was longer than it usually was. His gaze lingered there, tracing its wave and curl with the knowledge of how the rough, coarse silk of it felt gripped in his fists. Blunter fingers moved with swift dexterity over the chill, dulled metal, caressing its dead beauty, smoothing away imperfections and grime. Connor had never realized how erotic cleaning a gun could be. But then, this was Murphy.

Murphy had passion. For life, for God, for his mission. But most of all, Murphy had a passion for his twin. Connor was his heart, his soul, his strength, fuel, the power of the machine.

His head was bent over the rickety table. It was covered in guns, oil, and cleaning tools. The scent of the heavy oil made his head feel light as air and yet like there was an anvil sitting at the crown. And he could feel the artic laser of Connor's liquor-sharpened stare on his bare skin. It sizzled along his nerves, making his heart shudder in his chest and his fingers quiver just ever-so-slightly. He could no longer concentrate on what sat in front of him but he wasn't ready to turn around, knowing what he'd find.

He stroked a dirty cloth, once an old shirt of Connor's, over the grayish black barrel, lovingly smoothing the oil over its sleek surface. He worked slowly, unlike his usual hyper-energetic self. It was almost pain, feeling his twin's attention and then refusing to acknowledge it. It was a pleasure-pain. Who knew that cleaning a gun could turn him on…but then again, this was Connor.

Connor set the glass on the table, careful not to spill the last mouthful. He felt loose, yet there was a power, a strength, in his limbs that made him bolder than was his wont. He knew what it was. Murphy.

Murphy heard Connor set his glass down; it was like a gunshot in the silent, icy apartment. He placed the re-assembled gun gently on the table. He felt like he was on fire and frozen solid all at once and it made him more cautious than was his wont. He knew what it was. Connor.

Control ruled Connor's life, his mind. But tonight, something dangerous, long denied, and primitive strangled his control with the effortless ease of a python. His right hand settled over the vee of his thighs, familiar territory. What it found was not new, either. The fabric was taut, an entrapment. His fly bit with sharp metallic teeth on flesh freshly risen, firm and unflinching in its prison. In his left, he still held the cigarette, nearly burnt to the filter. He cut his eyes to it briefly before flicking it away. He stood, smoothly, muscles uncoiling beneath the bared flesh of chest and abdomen. His naked feet scuffed against the rough concrete floor as he languidly prowled toward his prey. Murphy, he thought, a sly smile curling his mouth.

Impulse ruled Murphy's life, his mind. But tonight, something frightening, long denied, and feral awoke the tiny sliver of prudence threading his character. His hands were empty now, resting carefully on each thigh. Warmth curled like cream in coffee through his veins, a deadening, arousing drug. Azure eyes dipped down, clinically measuring the shift in the terrain of his lap. He listened to the steady tap of calloused skin against concrete as it closed the distance between him and his twin. Never in all their lives had Connor led the dance. He sat there, silent and shivery still, waiting for his predator. Connor, he sighed inwardly, his eyes slipping closed.

Connor stood behind him, so close he could feel the heat of Murphy's skin against his own. It felt like sin. He no longer cared. Connor lifted one hand, his right, and, taking the index finger, traced the delicate curve of Murphy's left ear. Murphy sucked in a breath, sharply. The sound sent a crawling quiver down Connor's spine and metallic teeth dung deeper into tender tissue.

With that one finger, Connor followed the arch of the tendons corded in his brother's neck, lingering deliciously in the hollow beneath his jaw where the echo of his heart throbbed. It leaped, welcoming, at his touch. He continued on. Across one muscular shoulder, over the outline of the blade, to the nape. Goosebumps had risen on Murphy's exposed skin and his breaths came ragged and uneven. He paused at that vulnerable place, the first vertebrae at the nape, where neck and back conjoin. A breath snagged in Connor's throat as he sank to his knees, with a reverence that was almost sacrilegious. Cerulean eyes gazed transfixed. Hypnotized by Murphy's simplistic beauty and the brutal thrust of desperate need, Connor lowered his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Good Lord, but it's been an age! I apologize deeply to those who've been waiting for this but RL has been quite determinedly trying to assassinate me thesepast few months. But, no worries my goslings, the hour is at hand. I have completed the long awaited chapter 2 and am finishing up chapters 3 and 4. The latter onlyhave to be edited by my two gloriously magnificent betas, Someoneelsesdream and Sith Happens for all their time and effort into making sure this chapter is worthy ofeven the smallest gift of attention by BDS fans. Happy Reading, cherubs, and, with only four more chapters left to write, I give you...

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_A Week Earlier..._

Liquor was a very important part of Connor's life; one of the most important, in factLiquor was a very important part of Connor's life; one of the most important, in fact. As he stared down into the bitter, opaque liquid he felt his senses swirl, and sink through the creamy froth, down , down to the dregs. The icy, moist glass slithered against the palms of his hands, the tips of his long, poet's fingers dripping and slick.

His mind was adrift, away from the clinking, clashing, laughing din of the pub. He could feel the uneven wobble of the stool beneath him, shifting slowly to and fro, backand forth, rocking gently with each sensual tip of his hips. The rough drag of his boots on the dirty wooden floor echoed on the sole of his foot, vibrating up his legs tolick at his thighs. Vaguely unsettled, he curled one leg around the stool to stop the feeling, but it only increased the intoxicating tip of the stool. He uncurled it and set it gently, carefully back on the floor, studiously avoiding any friction.

Connor could still taste the sharp bitter bite of his dark beer, stout and thick, lingering on the back of his tongue, the taste almost unbearable but strangely addicting. He wondered if the next sip would taste the same after it was gone. He lifted the heavy pint to his mouth. A quick swig, a struggle of muscles in his face to hide his grimace at the sudden burst of acrid burning bitters across his tongue but it was smooth and he shivered as it flowed down his throat, pulling his thoughts with it. Ah, he sighed, it was the same but it wasn't. It's what always brought him back. Each taste was always tiny bit different.

The world was returning, drawing back into focus before glittering, cerulean eyes. They turned to the man at his right. Angelo. Reminded him of Rocco. He was prettier than Rocco. Connor had to hide a smirk at that thought. Rocco had been Murphy's friend. Murphy. Connor ran his fingers up the glass, then back down, up and then down, up, down. Tight coil in his belly, distracting. Memories lightening quick, dirty, sinful, delicious danced like sparks through smoke across his inner eye. He shook his head, sending dark blonde hair skittering across his forehead and into his eyes. Heavy-lidded, sensuous eyes, they were. Connor skimmed Angelo once more. Smarterthan Rocco. He'll do. He'll do, indeed. Connor laughed, low and deep in his chest, despite the quizzical look from his comrade. If only, if only it was Murphy sitting here now, he'd be laughing with him. Damn job. Connor took a long, hard swallow, draining the Guinness with a vindictive vengeance.

Nicotine was an important part of Murphy's life; one of the most important parts, in fact. He stood now just beyond the iron and chain-link gates of the warehouse, smelling of rancid sweat and despair. He could feel the weight of the place in his hair, on his eyes, clogging his throat, dulling his voice and stifling his spirit. Pausing there, he withdrew a tattered pack of cigarettes from his battered jeans' front pocket. Desperately quick and nonchalantly mechanical, he wrapped his lips around one, not bothering to use his workman's hands at all, and pulled it from the carton.

He shifted his weight, rolling his hips from side to side, back and forth, back, forth, side to side in secret slow motion dance of anticipation. The friction of his thighs and the denim crawled like spiders down his spine and he could feel forbidden places tighten in reaction. A whole body sharp inhale. Murphy looked down his nose at where the cigarette appeared just beyond the tip. It was a little crinkled, most definitely wrinkled and appeared more than a little worse for wear. But the smoky-sweet taste clinging to his tongue, although the fire had yet to be lit, eased the snarling bite of burden from his mind, straightening his knobby spine, smoothing his gaunt shoulders.

He dug deeper into the short-sighted abyss of his pocket, encountering confusing things, irritating things, interesting things with a wayward mumble, haphazard grumble. A silver lighter appeared, beloved, cherished, needed. Click, click, snap. Click, click, snap. Click, click, sizzle, and he breathed deeply of paradise. Sighing, he began to walk. Strides, of the lean and mean variety, ate of the ground before him. He removed the fag, felt the rough-smoothness of the paper, a familiar evil, against his fingers as he flicked the ashes into the on-rushing wind. Licked his lips, Savored. A deep drag this time, all sweet and deadly, it was, with just the right touch of smug satisfaction.

The town was a blur behind a smoke screen, and he cared for none of it. There was only one place he wanted to be right now, one person he wanted to see. Connor. Hot pull low in his belly, demanding. Murphy ran his tongue over the filter, up and down, circling, round and round and round, flick and tickle. Memories a slow flicker, intoxicating as Irish whiskey, warming, decadent, perfect as they danced across his inner eye. He smirked devilishly around the near-spent _cigarro._

The sound of laughter, the clash of pint glasses on wood, other glasses and flesh reached his ears, now clear of rot and smog. The smoldering cherry blinked and stuttered as it struggled for life. Murphy pulled the thing from his lips and studied it. Weighing. He wondered if the last taste would be as deeply satisfying as the first.

Murph pursed his lips and inhaled, feeling the curling, burning, _sweet mother of GOD,_ as it danced across his tongue. Eyes struggled to stay open, sinking low in hedonistic enjoyment. Yeah, he thought, it was good. It was what always kept him coming back. That last sweet taste. Sighing, he dropped the butt and ground it carefully, worshipfully beneath a scorched heel. Slap, crack, slam. He was inside.

Connor hated being alone. So he leaned in close. Angelo smiled at him, prettily. Connor snickered inwardly. Fag. He could smell Angelo's rich scent, full of fake flowers and greed. He had to struggle not to gag. It pulled at him though, the emptiness, the lack of something. Murphy. So he leaned close, pretending that the smell filling his head was one of nicotine and sweat, soap and skin. Angelo sidled closer, slanted Italian eyes appraising, praising. Smooth Italian moves nonchalantly, casually draping a companionable arm around Connor's lean frame. Connor missed the warmth, missed the ease of _that_. So he leaned in close. Until he was pressed from shoulder to knee with Angelo, until his fingers, wrapped around his empty glass, brushed Angelo's, but it wasn't wrong, how could it be wrong? It wasn't Angelo. It was Murphy that Connor saw.

It was dark inside the pub. Murphy loved the dark, loved only having four senses to work with instead of five. The air was thick, laughter, smoke, sex, and whiskey filled it to brimming, spilling down his throat and coating his tongue with every breath. He grinned. Murphy loved the dark. Like a beam, a dirty golden shine caught Murphy's eye. Pleasantly blinded, Murph staggered happily through the frothing sea of friends and strangers. A shockingly cold glass was shoved into his hand. Faces a blur, he followed the beam. Murphy loved the dark. It made it easier to find the light. But something was different about the light this time. Murphy slowed, his face smoothing out and down. Tightening, tautening, sickening was that sinking feeling in his gut. Connor. And not just Connor. Connor and Angelo. An arm lay where Murphy's should've been, a hand brushed the hand that should've been touching his, a mouth that should've been smiling at him, speaking with him. Suddenly, Murphy hated the dark. What was the dark without the light?

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Well, goslings, what say you? If you liked it, please review. If you thought it was drivel, please don't keep it to yourself. Tell me. Flames are the fuel of this machine, just as much as praise is, if not more so. Now, let me tell you a secret. The more encouragement I receive, the faster the chapters will arrive. They will still come regardless of interest but for those who wish to see the end of this tale before Autumn, send me messages, leave reviews, bug the bloody daylights out of me and you'll get your next chapter faster. There will be 8 and an epilogue; no more.

Ta, my cherubs

Ronia

( I noticed the weird spacing and corrected it; sorry for making folks cross-eyed. I need some motivation...a little help from my friends?)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Well, ducks, it's been forever and a day since I last posted on this story. I apologize for its brevity but this particular chapter gave me some serious lip. Impudent thing. Anyway, I am now working on the fourth chapter and am outlining the fifth so there won't be such a long dry spell between the next few chapters. I'd like to thank my readers and especially my amazing beta for helping me with getting things _just so. _Someoneelsesdream, you know you're invaluable. gives a round of applause

Enough of this babble...without further ado, I give you the third chapter of GunMetalGrey...Enjoy.

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_The Present_

All Murphy could see were the inside of his eyelids, it was all his senses could handle at the moment. He was overwhelmed with sensation, with feeling and a trembling, weakening need.

Hot and wet, Connor's mouth closed over his skin. Murphy stiffened, those deep, lovely, beautifully-forbidden muscles tightening, smooth and delicious, while he sat passive and staunchly silent; still unmoving, still undecided, still stubbornly unforgiving.

All there was, the slick-rough slide of a twin's tongue across vulnerable sensitivity, the sharp scrape of teeth over skin-draped bone. A long pull, swirling, twirling, painting pale flesh with the brilliant reds and violets of passion and possession. He swore violently, feeling the echoes in his head as if Connor was stroking his soul, pulling it up through him with every slippery slide, pulling him _fucking_ _apart_ with lips, teeth, tongue, and breath. A shudder rocked Murph abruptly from his core, rolling up from below, through the bone-caged heart, throbbing, pulsing, like a broken bird. It was unsure, his heart; to stay or to go ….Was it fight… or flight?

All Connor could see was Murphy, it was all his senses wanted to handle. He was flooded with sensation, drenched in desperation that was fueled by a steady, powerful resolve.

Satiny and cool, Murphy tasted of sweet sweat, cheap Dial soap, and musky smoke; Connor could barely stand it (suppresses shiver, smothers gasp against a twin's shoulder). Icy and painful, concrete nipped his knees and Connor felt as if his blood was draining away through the aching holes it left. Swaying drunkenly, hands grasping, folding around the chair back, steadied, and anchored, but uncertain. A silent sob jerked Connor's stuttering heartbeat, but he gathered the regret-strewn pieces, the guilt-ridden whispers, close. Mindful of jagged edges, he wrapped them tightly into actions, words, apologies, and lust. _lust, LUST. _

Connor pulled back. With eyes sharp as knives he traces the star-burst of love on his twin's flesh, his left hand lifts, slowly, almost timidly, definitely shaking, to stroke the illicit brand A caress as gentle, as soft, as a butterfly's kiss skims over the knob of the spine, lingering on the blood rose he'd created and all five fingertips glide, as easily as steel over ice, down, down, down the valley between the jutting mountains of Murphy's shoulder blades to the delta hidden beneath the frayed fabric clinging damply at his hips. . A slight barrier, an outer wall of denim and a portcullis of zippered teeth blocks continued exploration, prohibits worship, but he is undaunted. Bending close once more, Connor uses the barest brush of his lips to outline the fine geography delineated beneath his brother's skin. Flesh, blood, bone, head, heart, soul all are lovingly adulated between the borders of shoulder and cloth-cloaked hip. He grunts, low, harsh and abrasive. There should be more. There should _always be_ more; this one beneath his fingers deserves more. But should he give it, give in…or walk away?

Frustration. Indecision. With a tiny toss of dusty honey, Connor pauses, pulls back, settles on his heels. His restless hands linger at the threshold, begging for something beyond permission. His grip tightens. Fabric creaks, groans. He feels droplets trickle between his fingers, onto the floor, down his brother's skin.

"Oh, God… Murphy…_please_…"

Murphy is fearless. As fearless as a man of the Almighty can be. Not in all his years on this earth has he ever feared man or beast. There is but one thing, one thing in the entire universe which can make him quiver in terror. Connor. Only his twin has that power. A power all the residents of Heaven or Hell can never hope to lay claim to. Plus, he would never admit to it, out loud, anyway.

He can feel the room around them. The creak of footsteps above them. Step, shuffle, step, shuffle. The rain is a steady thunder against stout walls. He can hear it dripping, seeping in from a secret crack; slither, trickle, plop onto concrete already so riddled with moldy puddles another doesn't matter. The gun still sits on the table, a dull reminder of what could've been, and a sharp one of what is. Jeans are cutting into his belly, knuckles digging deep into the hollow of his spine. If he were to lie in the rain right now, face down against musty tarmac, it would collect there, a shallow pool forever warmed by flesh and chilled by Heaven's tears. Murphy swallows deliberately, balancing the metallic bite of fear and the smoky nip of anticipation against the roof of his mouth and down his throat. Connor is panting; humid gusts of desire condense on his skin and the air is cooler as it brushes moistened skin. Connor's hands are pulling his jeans and his desire is a battering ram at the door of Murphy's anger. He shifts minutely. Connor freezes. He can hear him hold his breath.

Chills racing, pimpling flesh as the sweet warmth recedes. He could say no. Or he could say nothing at all. Just walk away. Out the door. Down the street. He could pull away and curse his brother, his twin, his other half. Call him fiend, sinner, damned. He could hit him, again and again and again, until there was nothing left but the gun on the table and the blood on his fists. Again.

But he won't. He can't. He doesn't. He just slides his left hand back behind him, down by his hip where the denim sags dangerously low, and buries it into Connor's soft, prickly, slick golden-boy hair.

"Connor…I…"

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Oi, readers, what say you? Now, I know I've said this before but reiteration is not always a bad thing and when my readers tell me what they want to hear more of and what they don't I'm more inclined to work faster and better to appease my audience. So be like a tree, loves, and review. wink, wink


	4. Chapter 4

_Three days ago…_

He closed his eyes against the smoke. The humid air battered his drunken mind until it was nothing but a melted puddle of aching memories, swirling viscously behind closed lids, fighting to leak over the sills of his soul. He didn't know where he was. Not really; somewhere in south Boston, yeah, maybe, but this wasn't Doc's place. MacGuinty's didn't sound like this. Bitter words filtered through the white noise of the stereo system and drink-induced fury radiated from the others milling amid the gloom. Murphy shuddered, quivers of dying flesh, he thought blankly. CRA-ck. The bar shook as a chair was slammed into it less than a foot from his elbow. A rolling liquid drumbeat pounded the outer walls as, inside the bar, shadows of humanity pounded each other with fists, furniture and slurred, blurred words of hate.

He couldn't stay here. He couldn't go home. He couldn't look into eyes so like and yet unlike his own and see the guilt there. He'd wandered south Boston for what seemed like infinity. He'd drunk what felt like three-quarters of the whisky in the entire fucking city. Damn, it didn't work, none of it worked. He had to get out of here. He couldn't breathe; too hot, too human, too much of everything. Oh, sweet fucking _Jesus. _

Murphy fell, knees smacking to the rough floor. Forehead met resistance with a slam, throwing his head back, sprawling and stunned. Liquid heat trickled down across his brow, tracing a dark line down nose and cheek to drip to a floor already foul with human effluvia.

He blinked. Somehow he got to his knees, sudden hiss of pain escapes as weight settles on them. Bruised, badly. Inside and out. Get to the door. Vision washed in red, in darkness. Can not see. For a moment he looks for a flash of golden hair in the dimness to light the way. Nearly sinks back to the floor in a wave of agony, of memory. Too much; Gonna puke. Oh, fuck. There's the door, thank God. Doorknob makes a good lever. He's suddenly standing, just as suddenly falling through. The damp chill hits him hard in the gut, a sucker punch, the sleet biting into his flesh through his clothes. Reaction time catching up, he rolls. Burning bile rises up and spills over violently, whole body wracked with spasms. Rain, icy, numbs the skin of his face; his fingers, gloveless, can no longer feel the uneven concrete of the alley beneath them. Finally, it eases. Collapsing back into the comforting, liquid embrace of a muddy bloody puddle. Numb, dead, cold. Outside matches the inside now.

Murphy opened his eyes. Only lightening burned the night. Inside and out. Outside and in.

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He closed his eyes against the glare of the lamplight off the mirrors. It was warm and comfortably raucous in Doc's. He was drunk halfway out of his mind and scared out of the other half. Mindless. Brotherless. What's the difference? Whisky scorched its way down Connor's throat, leaving it sweetly raw. Solid clunk of wood and glass settles the liquor in his gut beside the lead ball of dread.

Where the fuckin' 'ell was Murphy?

Eyes, jerky with drink, darted under lashes to glare at the slim boy-man at the next stool. Hair dark, and too long, artfully wild and puppy-dog earnest—the eyes, dark too, like Rocco. Rocco's dead. Fuck, Murphy, so sorry. Needed a replacement; he was available. A friend, an ally. An insider. Angelo knows things. Like Rocco. He liked Rocco better. Connor snorted derisively; sputtered into his highball glass.

Connor swore roughly, the Gaelic words slick-sliding from his lips. Empty, damn glass was empty. So was his heart (Murphy, I don't _understand_). The coarse stroke of a masculine shoulder pressed Connor into the bar, his mind swaying stronger than his body at the slight pressure. Angelo. Is that why you ran, brother mine? Muscles tightened, pulling a sensual mouth into a grim, agonized line, stitched hard with confused regret.

Jostle, stumble, splash, then laughing tilted black eyes and a winning pretty-boy smile. No, no, not like Rocco. Too smooth, too young. He'd been wrong. Wrong to think Murphy would accept any replacement. Friend's a friend, even a dead one. Christ. Where the fuckin' hell was the bottle? Where was his _brother?_


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